Why post office offers the true test of endurance, and lawyers need silly wigs

A fortnight ago, I received a green note in my private postal box – the one that they block from inside if your subscription is not up to date – and which magically swings open once the payment is made.

I walked to the basement of the General Post Office and used the green note to retrieve an important mail from the US.

Last week, I received yet another note – this time it was a yellow note – but the attendant in the basement told me my parcel had been sent to City Square, a kilometre away, allegedly because the parcel was too large.

I told him I was expecting a book, so it could have fitted in my box. And why City Square anyway, I persisted.

I was told there was tax to be paid on the book and other postal charges. I asked why that couldn’t be paid at GPO. In any case, I asked why I should pay for a private box if my deliveries were being routed to another station a kilometre away.

“You ask too many questions, mister...” the young man smiled.

I told him I ask questions for a living and walked away. But I didn’t have the strength to walk to City Square.

That would have to wait.

Last Monday, soon after my mission at the Judiciary, where I had gone to witness the inauguration of a family member into the legal fraternity, I decided I was close enough to walk to City Square.

At the Judiciary, I had unknowingly strayed into a room where the newly minted lawyers were signing the Roll of Advocates, the one they are struck off once they misconduct themselves by stealing clients’ money, and was gently informed only lawyers were allowed there.

But that wasn’t before a great secret was whispered in my ear: that the silly wig learned friends insist on wearing goes for the princely sum of Sh70,000.

Anyhow, the price of that silly wig clarifies why some lawyers have a penchant for, how do we put this, intercepting their clients’ money for safekeeping longer than necessary, especially when they have to buy woollen wigs every month.

So off I went to the City Square with lawyers’ wig on my mind, armed with the yellow chit. Not knowing where to start, I flashed it to the female guard I found at the entrance.

She told me to take the lift to the second floor.

“Don’t press Mezzanine 2, just 2,” she instructed. It turned out the lift had no button for second floor. Somebody pressed 3 and said. “That will take you to second floor as well...”

Indeed, the lift landed on the second floor.

The door was shut but not locked. I and two others walked in.

“It’s lunch time,” a female attendant announced. “That’s why the door is shut...” But she generously said we would be served since we were inside. It was 12.45pm.

My parcel was retrieved.

“Fungua,” a male attendant ordered. I removed the book. The gracious lady said since it was only one book, I wouldn’t be charged tax, but I wasn’t to quote her.

I was then directed to get a duplicate copy of the yellow chit from another counter, which would be retained upon payment of postal fee of Sh175.

There were five people in the queue waiting to pay their tax or postal fees on their gifts from abroad.

Once a receipt was issued, it was handed to another person to retrieve the parcel once more.

The receipt was also recorded by a man at the exit.

I went through eight transactions lasting about 35 minutes before I finally picked my book to go, to the relief of workers desperately waiting to go for lunch.

The post office experience rekindled something of value: it is just about the only place where one is guaranteed human contact, and just like the snail mail they handle, it also offers true test of patience and endurance.